


And If You Fall

by menaraline



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:10:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8726809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menaraline/pseuds/menaraline
Summary: John lives only for Sherlock. Sherlock makes certain of it. (A blatantly unsolicited and possibly early Christmas gift fic for EmberGlows)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmberGlows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmberGlows/gifts).



> Please read the tags before proceeding—understandably, this fanfic is not for everyone, and I don't want people to feel as though they weren't properly warned. The title is from “Bottom Of The River” by Delta Rae. As of now, the only season of BBC’s _Sherlock_ that I’ve finished is the first, so if there are any inaccuracies, I apologize in advance.

Despite everything, John sometimes felt that he had never understood Sherlock.

Well, that wasn’t _exactly_ right—to a degree, he did know his flatmate. He knew the man’s mannerisms (though he often felt as though he discovered a new one each day), he knew his character, and he certainly knew what he did and didn’t enjoy.

But, _sometimes_ —

“John, what are you doing?”

Sherlock's voice, deep and curt, effectively broke the pleasant silence of their shared flat. John's hand, curled around the handle of the front door, immediately tensed.

 _Good God,_ he thought, alarmed by how rigid his body became from an innocuous question. _It's just Sherlock, why am I so jumpy…?_

“Ah—I’m going to meet up with someone, and I’m running a little late,” John said, glancing over his shoulder to see Sherlock sitting at the table in front of his laptop (and judging from how intently he was looking at the screen, he was most likely researching the untimely deaths of a newly-divorced couple living in Birmingham). “The kettle's near the fridge if you want tea.”

“I _want_ you to help me with this investigation,” Sherlock retorted. He sounded distinctly irritated. “And I don't have the time to make myself tea.”

“I _will_ help you,” John assured him, checking his watch anxiously. _I have only five minutes; however, if I walk quickly I can still make it in time…_  “But I really don't want to leave her waiting—”

“That's hardly sensible,” Sherlock said, certain of himself. “Especially considering that you hardly care for this date in the first place.”  

John glared at him, indignant. “Of course I do. I mean—this is only our second outing, but she's been a kind and well-mannered person, and—”

“Cancel it,” Sherlock said firmly, not even looking up at him.

The sudden, harsh command made John gape, and his hand on the door handle momentary slackened. But this shock left him as quickly as it came.

“I will _not_ ,” John snapped, angry and, to be quite frank, _offended_ , his grip tightening on the handle once more. How terribly arrogant of Sherlock to think that he can order him around like that…!

(Although he _did_ often make John do errands, he wasn’t normally so unreasonable about them! … Okay, fine, Sherlock was often _somewhat_ unreasonable, but this time he was just being ridiculous!)

“You aiding this investigation is much more valuable than you meeting with someone whom you don't even know the name of,” Sherlock retorted.

“I know her name!” John protested.

“What is it?” There was a challenge now in Sherlock’s voice.

John felt his face flush when he actually couldn’t come up with anything. “... That’s not the point,” he stammered. “What _matters_ , however, is the fact that you want me to stay home to help you when you've been doing nothing but staring silently at your computer the whole day—”

“Conducting research,” Sherlock corrected. “And your perspective would be beneficial for the investigation.”

John scoffed at that. “Sherlock, you haven't needed my ‘perspective’ since the case with the chemist, and even then, I had been entirely wrong.”

“It helped me find out that the killer was an obsessed flight attendant,” Sherlock argued.

“Yes, by being completely _incorrect_.”

“Even still,” Sherlock said, glaring at him. “I need you here, and you are not going on this tedious date to see an awful and predictable film.”

“How did you figure out we were going to watch—? Never mind,” John said, shaking his head. “I don’t even want to know.” Resigned, he glanced at the face of his watch. All this did, however, was make his stomach drop when he saw the direction the minute hand was pointing at. “Now I'm bloody _late_ ,” John said, horrified. Frantically snatching up his bag and wallet, he snapped, “ _Thank you_ , Sherlock, for insuring that I will have to _run_ to meet her now. If the film starts without me, I swear—”

“You wouldn’t be missing much,” Sherlock said, cutting him off coolly.

“That’s up for _me_ to decide,” John snapped. Angrily, he grabbed his keys from a nearby counter, his fingers clenched around them so tightly that he felt the tip of a _brass key-chain_ bite into the meat of his palm. A _calendar_ , which hung on the wall right near the cabinets, had this day marked with a large red ‘X’—such a blatant reminder of this date’s importance only served to make John even more furious. “And I assure you—” he said, practically seething now. “—that I will enjoy myself very much tonight. I know for a _fact_ that she and I will have a spectacular time—”

But John was cut off by a loud _thud_ behind him. He nearly jumped at the sudden noise, and his keys slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the floor in a messy heap of metal. Turning around, he realised that Sherlock was standing up now. His laptop had been slammed shut.

 _My God_ , John thought, his chest pounding. But when the surprise wore off, he felt his rage returning.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he said, his voice reproachful and cross. “Be careful! That's a bloody expensive laptop—”

“Your _date_ —” Sherlock said, his lips curled in derision. “—likes you even less than you do her. First, she's a lawyer and, judging from the size of her law firm, a _successful_ one.”

“You've done _research_ on her?” John demanded, furious but not surprised.

Sherlock continued to talk as though John hadn't said a thing. “She's _married_ , John,” he said, sounding exceptionally cold.

“No she's not, she would have said something—” John argued, but his mind was anxiously whirring with the new information he was being given. After all, it was _very_ possible…

“Haven't you seen the _indent_ on her ring finger?” Sherlock spoke frostily and mercilessly. “There would be a visible tan line too—if she hadn’t covered it up with make-up.”

“How would you even know that?” John demanded, enraged. “Oh right. _Research_. Can you _for once_ stay out of my business, Sherlock?” But his flatmate showed not a single sign of contrite (but of course he didn’t—since when did Sherlock feel _bad_ about his harmful actions…?). “And,” John added, swallowing. “That could be a coincidence.” He said those words with more certainty than he was feeling, because he distinctly remembered how his date refused to let him touch her hand, claiming that it wasn't proper on a first outing. He respected her wishes, of course, but it _had_ been atypical—

“Please—‘research’? Hardly. The multiple profiles she has on various dating sites are practically _advertised_ ,” Sherlock scoffed. He began to walk towards John with quick, smooth strides, and— _God_ , his legs were long. “These profiles each contained vastly different and contradictory information about her. Furthermore, the swimsuit images she posted on these various websites have all been obviously airbrushed at her belly.”

“She could be insecure,” John protested, but his voice was trembling as he thought, _she didn't tell me this at all—she's on_ dating websites? _Christ._

“You idiot,” Sherlock sneered, near enough to John now that he had to resist the urge to back away. “She's hiding stretch-marks— _she has a child.”_ His pale blue eyes gleamed. “Did she tell you _that?”_

“No,” John said shakily, his mind spinning. “But—”

“But _nothing_ ,” Sherlock said, unimpressed. He stood before John now and—had he always been so tall…? “Think, John, and don’t let sentiment cloud your reason! She's taking advantage of the fact that you're a trusting moron who sees the good in people first. You're loyal, and she _sees_ that as a—”

He unexpectedly broke off mid-sentence, and when John confusedly looked at him, there was something like shock etched in all of his features. But then, Sherlock’s eyes—his calculating, manipulative eyes—suddenly _shined_ as though he had come up with a plan so brilliant, so _devious_ , that he had to struggle to keep it under wraps. John felt a shudder run down his body, because there was something dangerous about this new expression.

“I'm only saving your time,” Sherlock finally said, casually enough. His body, previously frozen with surprise, had a new kind of confidence to it that John only saw when his flatmate had solved a particularly difficult, gruelling case. Still though, there was something strange _twisting_ Sherlock’s oddly appealing facial features, and John could only watch him uneasily. “I find that kinder than the alternative.”

“And what would that alternative be?” John asked, narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock was smiling, but his words were callous. “Letting you go on a date with yet another woman who doesn't care about you would be _quite_ cruel on my part.”

John flinched at those words. “How dare you—” he hissed, feeling, strangely enough, _hurt_.

“She's not the first, you know,” Sherlock said, almost conversationally. “All your girlfriends, they never _stayed—_ do you know why?” Before John could even utter a word in response, Sherlock said, contemptuously. “Of course you don't. But _I do._ It's obvious—they see that they would _benefit_ from you. In one scenario, they find out that you're a doctor and think solely of the money you earn. Take your previous girlfriend as an example—she left the moment she saw that you lived in this flat.” John flinched because _God_ did he remember that disaster. “In all frankness, the fact that she asked what your salary was on the _third date_ should have been an obvious hint and red flag.”

 _Fine_ , John reluctantly admitted to himself. Maybe _I should have seen one that coming._

“In a different scenario, it’s mere self-doubt and desperation—for example, your current date,” Sherlock said coolly, sure of himself. “Her marriage is falling apart because she cares more about her work than her family, which is obvious because—considering the various locations and activities on her multiple dating profiles—she hasn't been back home in Manchester in _months_. There are rashes on her ring finger in an older photograph of her—she had taken her ring off _years_ ago. This means that there have long been deep-rooted issues in the marriage. For years she has been unhappy and insecure, and so, she eventually decided to look for other ways to find the attention she wants. In other words: _you_.”

“I…” John stammered, not knowing what to say. He honestly felt quite overwhelmed and disoriented and _hurt_. Sure, he and his date were only really testing the waters at this early stage in their relationship (if it could be called that)… but it wasn't pleasant to realise that he was literally being used to boost someone else’s ego. And there, in equal measures, came in the misery and the anger because _how dare she?_ But—was he so inadequate that he couldn’t maintain a single monogamous relationship with a woman for more than a few months…? There was a deep, profound misery in knowing that in the failures John had with Sarah, Jeanette, and all the rest, there was only one constant— _him_. Was he really so terrible of a boyfriend…?

And then, there was a sudden but gentle hand on his shoulder. John tensed, and he looked up to see Sherlock, who was now quite close to him, having a sympathetic expression on his face.

(There had been something quite _forced_ about it, but John, who knew that Sherlock wasn’t a very empathetic person in the first place, could appreciate the effort.)

“It's unfortunate,” Sherlock said. “How none of them ever really cared about you.” Didn’t _that_ sting. But Sherlock’s grip on his shoulder only tightened. “I know you, John, and, despite being an idiot (try to not take offence—most people are), you're more brilliant and bearable than most. I can attest to that.”

John said dryly, “Thanks”, but he could feel the back of his eyes burning. To an extent, he did honestly feel grateful for the kind words, because somehow he knew that—to a degree at least—there was an unmistakable sincerity to them.

Sherlock's eyes glimmered in amusement, and John would have smiled had he not been feeling so insufficient. Instead, he looked at the floor, searching for the proper words to express his desire to be alone. But then, there was the sensation of fingers (long, graceful, _steady_ ) underneath his chin, and they angled his face upwards so that he could see Sherlock's eyes—

They were narrow and thin in shape, and their irises were a chillingly pale blue that shone starkly against the warm amber of the flat’s lighting. John had never known how the careless intensity of Sherlock’s gaze was even possible, but now that there was such a close proximity between them… for a moment he believed that he understood why. After all, the sight of such raw, frosty intelligence in that stare instinctively sent something cold running down his spine and…

“And,” Sherlock murmured, his breath soft against John's face. “I admit that there is a good reason that you are—and possibly, only you _could_ be—my flatmate.”

From anyone else, these words could possibly be the most pathetic, dry compliment that could be given in this situation. But considering that Sherlock spoke about sentiment as though it was the worst epidemic bestowed upon humanity, the statement was much more significant than it seemed to be.

But still, even knowing this, John couldn’t help but laugh. “And they say you aren’t romantic,” he teased, grinning. He felt his bad mood abate somewhat.

Sherlock appeared taken aback for a few moments, clearly not expecting that sort of reaction, but he then smirked. “Well, you can’t say that I don’t try,” he said. In a strange way, the warm lighting in the flat managed to made his features seem softer. It was a pleasant look.  

And John couldn’t help but think, _has Sherlock always been this handsome?_ Surely, he must have been, because in this moment, it was difficult for him to not see the appeal in the other man’s cold, sharp eyes… or in his dark hair that framed an oddly attractive face… or in his icy, arrogant smile—

Distantly, John wondered how he could have picked anyone over _this_.

In the end, it was in the heat of the moment—with the heady, confusing mix of insecurity and need for validation clouding John’s mind, with Sherlock smiling at him so gently (wickedly) as his eyes shined with an odd sort of affection (cunning)—that John threw his caution to the wind and tilted his face upwards to press his lips against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock was frozen stiff against him. For a good two seconds, John was worried that he had made a mistake and interpreted this in the wrong way. Already coming up with rubbish excuses ( _I apologise, I meant that in a platonic way_ —no, that was hardly believable, perhaps: _sorry, I believe the upcoming holiday season is getting to me, you know, with Christmas’s mistletoe tradition and all_ —no, that made no sense!), he was mere moments from breaking away from the kiss he initiated with a sincere, _honest_ apology—

_But then._

Sherlock kissed him back with remarkable enthusiasm, his lips warm and soft against his, and John's legs nearly buckled from relief alone. There had been an enormous risk that he would ruin things by making such a daring move, and briefly, John had been terrified that he would suffer for his impulsiveness. But now, he lifted his trembling hands to thread his fingers through Sherlock's dark, wavy hair, and he nearly gasped at how soft it was. And John, hungry for touch, nearly keened when he felt reciprocating hands on his hips.

The entire experience was absolutely remarkable. John could hardly think past the sensation of heated lips against his, the feeling of hands gripping him so harshly (it felt as though Sherlock could _break_ him), and the feeling of Sherlock being _everywhere_ (encompassing him entirely). He was so much taller than him, so much more powerful, and it was all very overwhelming—

A sharp ring blared into the heated air.

John yelped, and he was so startled by the unexpected and loud noise that he pulled away from Sherlock. Realising that the ring was coming from his bag, he turned around and pulled his mobile phone out. He gave Sherlock a shaky “So sorry, it's my phone, I had better check—” only for his heart to freeze upon seeing a single name stretched across his screen.

His first thought really shouldn't have been: _ah, so_ that's _her name_ , but it was, and he felt an immense stab of guilt. She must _still_ be waiting for him, and he was… Jesus, he was _very_ late. And he was literally kissing his flatmate when he was supposed to be on a date right now. John’s thumb trembled as it moved to accept the call…

But he then felt a sharp chin against his shoulder and strong, sinewy arms wrap around his torso.

“Will you pick up?” Sherlock asked, and John shivered from the sensation of heated breath against his neck. It was an innocuous enough question, but he knew that his answer to it carried so much more weight than it should have.

After all, if he were to say ‘yes’… Would he lose _this?_ Would he lose what Sherlock had previously been offering him?

But, no—that was ridiculous. John _should_ say yes because— _God,_ he was twenty minutes late, and she was _waiting_ for him. His thumb hovered right over the screen of his mobile phone, but then, he felt Sherlock press a kiss to his neck and he _remembered_ —“ _She's taking advantage”_ —

And the anger and hurt (and his suffocating feelings of inadequacy) returned in full. John’s heart clenched and his hands trembled. In this wave of immense, painful emotions, he felt his grip on his phone tighten. Decision already made, it took less than a second for him to turn the device off and toss it onto a nearby sofa.

“It can wait,” John finally said, and he could feel Sherlock smile (like a conqueror) against his neck.

“Good choice,” he whispered, and he stepped away. John’s back felt momentarily and unpleasantly cold, but then Sherlock was right in front of him, and _Jesus Christ_ —

Sherlock was smiling brightly, but his eyes, his eyes—they were victorious, but there was something deeper than that, something dark and _possessive_ that made John question whether or not Sherlock would have allowed him to pick up his phone even if he chose to.

 _(‘Allowed’? Since when did Sherlock have to_ allow _him to do anything—?)_

But then he pressed his mouth against his, and— _God, that_ tongue—John could hardly think anymore.

And when Sherlock whispered, “Bed?” against his ear, John wasn't even coherent enough to articulate ‘yes’ or ‘no’. But to Sherlock, the thud of his bag against the hardwood floor was an answer enough.

* * *

 

“John, where are you going?”

Sherlock, despite being in bed (and _asleep_ —or so John had thought), was  _quite_ alert. After all, John could see him from the corner of his eye—he was sitting up and leaning against the headboard, his pale eyes sharp and focused even in the darkness of the room. A thick blanket pooled by his waist, and his wiry, well-muscled chest was entirely bare. He was looking remarkably unamused.

It was amazing—literally just seconds ago, John had freed himself from his covers, sat up, and moved so that his legs could hang off the side of the mattress. He had no idea as to how Sherlock so quickly _knew_. Was he a light sleeper, or…?

Either way, there were many possible answers to Sherlock's question, not all of them being entirely honest. But John, knowing well that Sherlock was much better at deducting than he was at lying, smartly chose to be truthful. At least, partially.

“For a walk,” John said. “My legs feel a tad cramped—”

This wasn’t a lie, not exactly. With bedsheets still crumbled around his waist, John had hardly any energy left and his muscles were aching. But, he had a morning routine, and he imagined that tea will perhaps soothe his weary limbs. And for some reason, being in the bed with Sherlock beside him (even though Sherlock had been so _kind_ to him) made him feel quite…

_Stifled._

Chances were, it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault—John was probably just overreacting. Even so, with his head mostly clear, he couldn’t help but feel as though there was something deeply unsettling about the night before…

(But he just didn’t know _what_.)

“Stay.” There was no room for disagreement in Sherlock’s voice. John felt defiant, of course, and he hated being expected to follow unreasonable commands from someone who in all honesty had _no_ power over him—

“ _It's unfortunate, how none of them ever really cared about you.”_

And John froze, the memory of those words alone making his throat go dry and his blood run cold. He didn’t understand why this statement would have such a profound impact on him, but all he knew was that in one moment, he was a few meters from the door, and in the next, slowly, reluctantly, he had settled back into bed (and into Sherlock’s waiting arms).

(All it took was _one order_ from him, and—)

“Good choice,” Sherlock said (as though John had one). There was no mistaking the desire, the want, and the possessiveness in those sharp, scheming eyes of his, and John remembered something about obvious hints and red flags.

“Go back to sleep, John,” he murmured, Sherlock’s arms so tight around him that he felt as though he was being strangled. He felt his eyes burn, but he closed them anyway.

And John—whose dreams that night would be of him being locked in cages without exits and drowned in seas ( _cold, icy blue_ ) with no surfaces—had never felt so entrapped.

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is written for my lovely friend, EmberGlows, who has been incredibly busy and admirably hard-working these past few months. She undoubtedly deserves something nice—hence, this fic. This story took a good few days to plan and write, and in each of those days, she has been pretty much the only person on my mind. This unsolicited fanfic is also revenge for the just-as-unsolicited (but still amazing) gift fic she wrote me a few months back. And although this story isn’t exactly intended to be a Christmas gift fic, I suppose it can be an early one!
> 
> This fic has been neither betaed nor Brit-picked, so I apologize for any mistakes in this regard! Please let me know if you see any errors. Also, Sherlock is a remarkably difficult character for me to write, so I desperately hope I did him justice! All kudos and comments are appreciated. If you want to check out my Tumblr, my URL is [menaraline.tumblr.com](https://menaraline.tumblr.com)!


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